


Simple Things

by manic_intent



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, That AU where Santino uses the marker for another purpose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 14:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18918490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: John stared, incredulous. “You want me to be your plus one. To your sister’s coronation.”“To put it crudely, yes.” Santino wrinkled his nose. Trust the Baba Yaga to cut brutally to the point.“No shooting anyone?”“If you feel you have to, be my guest. It’s entirely optional. I’d also prefer that you clear something like that ahead of time with me. As a matter of courtesy.”





	Simple Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obstinatelybored](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatelybored/gifts).



> Opened briefly for JW3 prompts because JW3 is out / Australian elections got me down. 1st prompt by obstinatelybored on tumblr: John/Santino where Santino has to use his coin to ask for protection or assistance, or wing AU. I’ve done wing AU with Earthly Delights and arguably I did technically do the coin for assistance AU with Lovely Creatures, so protection it is. 
> 
> **NOTE** : This doesn't contain major plot spoilers for JW3 but it does refer to some parts of John's background that were revealed in JW3. The comments on this story will likely also be spoilery! Read at your own risk.

John stared, incredulous. “You want me to be your plus one. To your sister’s coronation.” 

“To put it crudely, yes.” Santino wrinkled his nose. Trust the Baba Yaga to cut brutally to the point. 

“No shooting anyone?”

“If you feel you have to, be my guest. It’s entirely optional. I’d also prefer that you clear something like that ahead of time with me. As a matter of courtesy.”

“…I thought you were gonna ask me to kill your sister,” John said. He rubbed a palm over his face and dug the heel of his hand into his temple, squeezing his eyes shut. Time had made the Baba Yaga seem less terrifying. Five years ago John had not been so human, not this tired. 

Santino knew better than to believe that. Even if John hadn’t just thoroughly razed his previous bosses’ operations to the ground over a dog. “Why would I want to do that?” Santino lied. It had been tempting. 

John glanced at him wearily. “Your father kinda chose her over you, didn’t he? Willed her his seat. Last we met, you were pretty sure that you were next in line.” 

Santino’s lip curled. “There are… consequences. For moving against the High Table. The Adjudicators they send are extremely thorough. Were I to order my sister killed, I would be killed in turn. My death would no doubt be poetically just in some way but I would be dead. The High Table understands causation.”

“You’d be High Table in turn, if she died,” John pointed out. 

“Not automatically. Not if she’d willed her seat to anyone else. Besides, if that mere fact could cleanse all sins, the High Table would not be anywhere as stable as it is. Everyone would be killing everyone for a seat. Enough speculation. My sister speaks for the System. I don’t like it, she knows I don’t like it, that is our problem and not yours.” Santino tapped the silver market on the glass table. “Well?” 

“What exactly am I supposed to do?” Confusion was a strange look on John’s usually blank face. 

“Be visible and do as you’re told. It’s not an unusual state of affairs for you, is it? The Tarasovs never made a secret of the fact that you were their favourite employee,” Santino said, his lip curling into a tight smile. “When was the last time you walked anywhere without being instantly recognised? You’re the most famous person in our world. I doubt retirement put a dent in that.” 

John grimaced and looked away. The unnamed dog padded over to rest its heavy head on John’s knee, wagging its tail. “Not exactly a good actor,” John said. 

“All you need to do is loom ominously. You’re very good at that. Gianna and I will handle the rest.” 

John thought this over, his hands flexing over the glass. “How long?” 

“You are no doubt aware that there is a main coronation in Rome, and an afterparty of sorts, a second affair in Naples. After that, I’ll count your marker paid.” 

“What even would be the point?” John asked. He looked genuinely puzzled, frowning as Santino startled to chuckle.

“John. You killed how many people, over a puppy?”

“Wasn’t just a puppy,” John said. 

“Whatever it was, you’re now a free agent, and anyone with any sense remembers what it was like to fear the Baba Yaga.” Santino flicked the marker across the table to John, scraping the glass as it went. “If you would do so much over a dog, what would you do if someone crossed a lover? That is what people will think.” 

John carded his hand through his hair. He looked exhausted and didn’t make a move to touch the marker. Finally, he inclined his head, letting out a hoarse breath as he did so. 

“Excellent.” Santino got to his feet, reaching over the table to pick up the marker. “Bring the dog, if you like. Or Ares can arrange for it to be kennelled.” 

“I’ll manage,” John said.

“You won’t. Your time is now mine, as agreed.” Santino stared at John evenly, noting the flicker of murderous tension in John’s face, the thinning edge of his mouth. The ignorant would count John a handsome man. Santino knew better. Even without being aware of John’s abilities, John wore an unnatural stillness when idle. A storm, leashed briefly into calm. Santino wasn’t afraid. Now, as before, danger only thrilled him. 

John sat back, staying silent. The Baba Yaga had never been a man of many words.

#

“He agreed?” Gianna asked.

Santino glanced at John. They were in the car on the way to the airport, Dog safely kennelled with Charon. Santino had his phone held to his ear, but John had always had an excellent sense of hearing. “He doesn’t have a choice,” Santino said. 

“Darling brother, full of charm as always.”

Santino let out a snort. “Darling sister. I _could_ have used the marker to kill you.” 

“No doubt. A triumph that you would’ve carried to an early grave.” Gianna sounded amused. “Hand me to John.” 

Santino wordlessly handed John the phone. It was a slim black smartphone, not the sort that people in their world tended to favour. Smartphones could be hacked. The D’Antonios, however, had always been confident. “Gianna,” John said. 

“John.” How long had it been since John had talked to Gianna? He had spent the last five years trying to forget the decades he had once outlined with bloodwork, the empty stretches in between. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again,” Gianna said. 

“Never heard anyone say that to me before,” John said. 

Santino chuckled. An ocean away, the Queen of the Camorra laughed with the same wolfish amusement. The clans that called themselves the System were many and fractious, and any monarch that dared to rule had to be ruthless. “Why wouldn’t I? Are we not friends?” Gianna asked. 

“We are.” John liked Gianna. He had met her a long time ago in Naples when Viggo Tarasov had wanted something to sort out a partnership involving a counterfeit pipeline to New York. Back before the D’Antonio family had decided to eke out an American foothold of their own. She had been much younger then, fresh out of university, the youngest System woman to have earned a nickname. _La tigre_. 

“There we go. I’ll see you both in Rome. Have a nice trip. Oh, and John? Try your best not to fuck this up. Pass me back to my brother.” John handed Santino the phone, and he said something in the Neapolitan dialect that made Gianna laugh. 

The D’Antonios had a private Bombardier jet, a sleek 7500 with a tail adorned with a crowned double-headed eagle clutching a yellow and red shield. The D’Antonio crest. John stared at it as he followed Santino into the plane. “Sit where you like,” Santino said. He settled into a plush leather chair and was soon absorbed with his phone. Ares sat behind him, with a faint smile at John that was distinctly neutral. 

John chose a seat close to the door. He stared out of the large window until the plane took off, then he curled against the soft flank of the chair. 

“John.” Reluctantly, John opened his eyes and glanced behind him. Santino looked mildly irritated. “Surely you’ve been on a private jet before,” he said. 

“No.” John had never been a man much given to luxuries. He was fine flying commercial. As to equipment, it was readily available from the nearest Continental. 

“There’s a bed further in the plane if you need to sleep. Pick one. If you need a shower, it’s in the rear of the plane. There should be clothes in your size onboard.” Santino made a vague gesture. 

“Confident,” John said. This earned him an amused smirk. Santino pointedly patted his suit over the inner pocket that held the marker and turned back to his phone. 

Ares inclined her head as John signed -Good night- at her and slunk away down the aisle. There were a couple of beds, and the shower had a discreet bar that told him it held 40 minutes of hot water. John opted to wash his face and piss. He was comfortably numb, past the hollowing grief, past the black rage that had sustained him for days. The bruises and cracked ribs ached bitterly as John picked the smaller bed, kicked off his shoes, and lay on it. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

#

“Maybe you should have brought his dog.” Gianna pursed her lips after John was shown out of the walled garden of the D’Antonio villa in Rome, hopefully to be deposited in the nearest shower.

“What for?” Santino settled into one of the chairs at the patio table with relief and helped himself to a glass of white. Annoying as Gianna could be, at least she always stocked a decent cellar. 

“Look at him. What the hell happened? He’s acting like a depressed puppy. We need the Baba Yaga,” Gianna said. She stabbed at a peeled grape with a silver fork. 

“His wife did die fairly recently. After which he lost his dog.”

Gianna frowned at Santino as she ate the grape. “You’re telling me that he’s… sad.” 

Santino glanced at Cassian, who looked straight ahead with a perfectly still face. No help from that quarter then. “Yes? What’s wrong with that? He’s recently bereaved. Despite his reputation, he’s still human. It’s logical.” 

“It’s not useful to us.”

“Cassian could talk to him. You two are also friends, aren’t you?” Santino asked Cassian. He could probably manage more sympathy than Gianna. Not that it was difficult. There was little room in _la tigre_ for something as gentle as sympathy.

“Not really,” Cassian said. 

“The coronation party is in two days.” Gianna nudged Santino’s foot under the table. “Do something.” 

“Like what? Shower him with antidepressants? Puppies?”

Gianna sniffed. “If you’re meant to look like a lover, then fucking do something about it. It’s your skin on the line. Now that I’m part of the High Table—”

“Yes, yes.” Gianna was now effectively untouchable. Santino was not, and as her brother and heir he was a prime target. New York was dangerous for prime targets in a way that Naples was not. Santino drained his glass and got to his feet. 

He found John standing in front of the Picasso on the second floor, staring blankly at the daubs of bright colour cubed against each other. “You like it? We could give it to you,” Santino said. 

John tensed as Santino approached, keeping his hands loose at his side. “It’s a Picasso.” He pointed at the signature.

“So? We have a few. Gianna likes them, I don’t. Though the ones from his younger years are not too bad.” Santino had shared his father’s taste in art, one of the few things they shared. It was why the collection had been moved to New York from Naples after Massimo’s death. Gianna was amassing her own. 

“Yeah,” John said. 

Intrigued, Santino sidled closer. “I confess, I didn’t place you as a lover of art.” 

“I’m not. My wife was. She liked going to museums. Didn’t understand why I didn’t want to travel.”

Santino nodded. The Tarasovs could enforce a no-disturb order on John only within the confines of their territory. Overseas, things were more complicated. Killing John Wick—even a retired John Wick—would bring fame to the killer. A civilian wife in the way could easily have become collateral damage. Strange that the Tarasovs had never bothered to inform their heir about the agreement. “You never told her?” 

“No. Think she guessed, but no. We never talked about it.” John clenched his hands, then eased the fingers open one by one. “We didn’t get to talk about a lot.” 

“Do you regret that?” 

“No.” John turned away from the painting. “If she’d known. Really known. She probably would’ve called the cops.” 

Santino laughed, even though he knew John hadn’t been joking. “What did you do for a living when you were retired? Or did you just sit quietly at home?”

“Bookbinding.”

“Really?” Santino hadn’t expected that somehow. 

“Needs precision. Found it restful.” 

Bookbinding sounded incredibly tedious to Santino, but he found himself saying, “Show me.” 

John shot him a surprised stare. “Now?” 

“Why not? I’m curious. I’ll get someone to buy what you need. Make a list.”

“I’ll do it,” John said, after a long silence. He walked away before Santino could say another word, loping down the stairs. 

-This should be fun,- Ares signed at Santino when they were alone. 

He scowled at her. -Don’t start.-

#

On the street, John avoided the Continental. He kept to main streets, walking aimlessly until he came to a chic paper shop on Via del Babuino. The women within were young and friendly, curious at his presence—John looked nothing like the other patrons of the shop, who were for the most part also young and fashionable. They were amused by his accented Italian, charmed by his questions and by the fact that he didn’t have a smartphone.

John bought what he could from the shop and solemnly accepted a marked tourist’s map for the supplies they did not have. On the busy street, swallowed by throngs of tourists filtering in and out of shops, John was invisible. He was one of a hundred, one of a million, nothing special. The sensation was not as exhilarating as it once was when he’d had Helen at his side. Now it just reminded John that he was alone, that his attempt at escape could always only have been temporary. 

He flagged down a cab after buying the rest of the supplies. As John settled into the back seat, the cab driver met his eyes through the rearview mirror and inclined his head. “Buon pomeriggio, Mister Wick.” 

“The D’Antonio villa,” John said in Italian. He was so tired.

#

Santino had neither the patience nor the precision needed for bookbinding, and he swore loudly as he messed up another adhesive sheet. “ _Maledizione_. You did this for five years? What the fuck.”

“Wasn’t just this,” John said. He found himself giving Santino a terse rundown of the book restoration process, after which Santino wiped his hands down on a clean cloth and stared at him with suspicion. 

“You weren’t bored.” 

“No?” 

“Did you just like sniffing the glue? There are easier ways to get high,” Santino said. John flipped him off and finished sticking on the decorative paper he’d bought onto cardboard. “Love must have been a truly corrosive experience on your psyche.”

“Wouldn’t say that.” John’s work was precise and neat. Santino took the newly bound notebook from John and turned it over, inspecting the stitching, the perfect edges. John repossessed the notebook and set it under a heavy book to dry, then he pulled the mess Santino had made over and began to work on it. 

“You actually made a living from this?” Santino asked. 

“No. Had savings. Helen worked.” When he was working on the book, John looked less… drained. Less like he was operating on empty. His face had reacquired the stillness Santino remembered from half a decade ago, the tightly wound poise of a hunting bird waiting to strike. 

“Sounds painfully normal.” Santino couldn’t quite understand it at all. Plenty of people retired—everyone got old. To voluntarily secede in the way John had, to want to live as one of the sheep… that was inexplicable. 

“Liked it,” John said. He finished fixing the disaster Santino had made of the cover and set it under another heavy book. “Was a change.” 

“You grew up as a ward of the Director, but you spent a few years in the Marine Corps. That would’ve been a drastic change.”

John shot him a long glance. “Going to Bagram, to Afghanistan… Wasn’t an escape. Was more of the same, but worse.” 

“It was still an achievement. The Director’s never let any of her students leave before.” 

“Didn’t leave. Still have a ticket. She was teaching me a lesson.” John started to put all the new tools back into a box. The thread, needle, the binder’s tape. Santino picked up the bone folder before John could touch it, tapping it against his lips. It was a flat finger of a tool for leaving sharp creases, bevelled on one end and coming to a blunt point on the other. John’s eyes flicked down to Santino’s mouth and took a beat to travel back up.

Interesting.

“What kind of lesson?” Santino asked. He smiled. The marker in his pocket had leashed Death’s emissary to him for now, and it was dangerous to test its give. To tug on the strings and watch a revenant twitch to his will. When John tilted his head instead of ignoring him, a heady thrill pulsed through Santino. Power had always been one of the most exciting drugs Santino had ever sampled. 

“A permanent one,” John said. He reached for the bone folder and dropped his hand when Santino held it out of his grasp. When Santino pressed the edge of the folder against John’s throat, John didn’t even tense. He watched Santino steadily instead, with the frank curiosity of someone who had long forgotten what it was like to fear death. 

“What is this made of?” Santino pressed the folder against John’s skin, indenting it. 

“Cow’s leg bone. Usually.” John’s breathing didn’t even hitch. 

“Why bone and not plastic?” 

“Doesn’t leave residue.” John straightened up as Santino traced the line of his jaw with the folder’s blunt tip, tickling through the grizzled beard. 

“Practical. Neat. Rather morbid.” Santino angled closer until their lips were inches apart, smiling. He balanced himself by pressing a palm on John’s thigh, stroking the hard muscle he could feel through John’s jeans. “Sounds familiar.” 

This time, John looked him evenly in the eyes. “Thought you just wanted a show. At the party.” 

“Those are the terms.” Santino flipped the tool around in his hands, using the bevelled edge to tip John closer. “But it doesn’t have to be a chore.” 

John was so still that Santino wasn’t even sure if he was breathing. They were close enough that they were sharing air, each of them tasting the weight between them, sweet with tension. John closed his eyes with a hoarse sound. He pulled the folder from Santino’s grip and angled his body away, replacing it in the box. For a man like the Baba Yaga, it was a surprisingly gentle polite dismissal. Santino smiled maliciously anyway, making a show of slouching back. John dropped his stare and got to his feet, walking away.

#

The party was big, brash, chaotic. Where most High Table coronations tended to be tightly controlled, elegant parties packed with loyalists, Gianna had opted for spectacle. John saw at least twelve security deficits walking in and had to stop counting. He’d always hated events like this. Being on display, instigating fear. Viggo and Abram had subjected John to them sparingly, and while they had never been apologetic about the necessity they had been polite about it. The D’Antonios were neither. The siblings had entered the morass together, with Gianna’s hand hooked in her brother’s arm. She was resplendent in white furs and silk, her brother in a sleek black suit that caught the light now and then like a starling’s wing. John stayed close to Cassian and endured the noise.

Something needed Gianna’s attention. Cassian and a handful of the retinue cut away around Gianna as she said something to Santino. He nodded and she swept away, cutting through the crowds like a knife. John startled as Santino tugged at his elbow. He couldn’t read the smile on Santino’s face, but malice had always been a default aspect of Santino’s vocabulary. 

John still breathed more easily as Santino pulled him to a quieter part of the temple grounds. The turf was lush, probably freshly laid just for the event. “Security isn’t great,” John said. Ares was nowhere to be seen. 

“Don’t remind me.” Santino made a face. “It’s worse than you think. There’s a catacomb access. Ares and her team are patrolling it right now.” 

“Why here?” 

“Why does my sister do anything? She said something about wanting to modernise. Breaking from tradition.” 

“You don’t agree.” 

Santino sniffed. “Tradition has worked for the System and for our family for a long time. This new direction of hers, well. We will see.”

“You think the other System clans ain’t gonna like it.” 

“People don’t like change. It’s how they’re built.” Santino looped his fingers playfully into John’s tie. “Even if it hurts them to stay in a holding position.” 

“You talking about yourself now?” A passing couple made John tense, but they noticed John and quickly walked away. 

“Among others.” Santino tugged. 

Despite his best instincts, John bent. He looped his arm around the small of Santino’s back, trying to breathe through the noise. To clear his head. This time, Santino closed in for a kiss before John could twist free, his hand clenched tight under the knot of John’s tie. He licked into John’s mouth, confident and obnoxious. John started to kiss him back and went still instead, closing his eyes. Desire startled him. It burned through dregs of misery and grief and rage that John had been mired in, through the exhausted hollowness that was what remained of the life he had tried to build. Santino’s touch was not hauling John back to an old way of living, a life that John had ever chosen for himself, but it was still _a_ life. It was more than what he could say about what he had been doing between Daisy’s death and Santino’s visit. 

“You’re very bad at this,” Santino said as they parted. He grinned lazily, licking against John’s bruised lips. “Has anyone ever complained?” 

“You’re such a dick,” John said, and bent to kiss Santino again.

#

Santino may have spent most of his adult life trying to live outside Naples with varying degrees of success, but there was nothing quite like coming home. The D’Antonio family had ruled Naples since the High Table’s inception, having wielded their newfound clout to crush rebellion and corral the hundreds of fractious System clans. Their great-grandfather had once harboured a wistful plan of rearranging the System to resemble Cosa Nostra, but there was safety in decentralisation, in being part of a shoal rather than a shark.

As long as they were the biggest fish in the shoal. 

“First time in Naples?” Santino asked John as they sat down at a table by a quiet road. It was a rhetorical question. Someone like the Baba Yaga could not come to Italy without everyone knowing about it. 

“Yeah,” John said. He glanced behind him at the busy pizza restaurant. “Didn’t you guys burn this place down before? Saw it in the news.” 

“Very politely.”

John frowned at Santino. “How do you politely burn a place down?” 

“By making sure that the only casualties were equipment, of course. Now we have an understanding with the owner, who has expanded to Milan and beyond. Even New York. Our friendship is profitable. That was the lesson we wished to teach.” Santino inclined his head as serving staff brought them a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses. It was a very average red, not that he was expecting much better from a restaurant like this. 

“Didn’t think you’d like places like this,” John said, as the server poured for them both with shaking hands. 

“Cheap?” Santino chuckled. “I’m not completely like my sister. I appreciate quality.” He reached over, tickling his fingertips over John’s thigh. John tensed a little but otherwise ignored him, though he revived when the excellent pizza arrived, wolfing down his portion. Santino ate more delicately, far too conscious of the mediocre wine. He had lied a little. The food here was good, but Santino usually preferred to just send a minion out to buy it if he was in the mood. In one of the D’Antonio strongholds he would be more comfortable, more secure, supplied by a better cellar. 

John, though. Like the many savants of varying talents who Santino had met now and then over the decades of his life, some part of John yearned for the anonymity that he could not have. For ‘normality’, whatever that meant in their terms. Eating by the sidewalk, watching the sheep, John was subtly relaxed in a way that he wasn’t when ensconced behind the walls of power. 

“You said they’re in New York?” John asked after he’d scarfed down another slice. He had a bigger appetite than Santino had been led to believe by the villas’ private chefs.

“Yes. There are a few very good Neapolitan pizza places in New York, which keeps things nicely competitive. Some are even authentic. We could try one when we return.”

John paused in the middle of picking up another slice and shot Santino an unblinking stare. “Stop.”

“Hmm?” Santino smiled with mock confusion. 

“This.” John gestured at the restaurant. “Seriously.” 

“Specify, John. More words. I’m not a fan of guessing games.” 

John lowered his voice. “I’m here because of the marker. That’s all.” 

“You’d rather that Gianna and I shut you in a closet and fed you through a slot?” Santino said, amused. “Was that what the Tarasovs did?”

“They usually left me alone until they needed me.” John looked away, took a bite. 

“Ah, well. Far be it for me to speak badly of the dead.” Santino waited for John to tense at the reminder. “Italians prefer to do things a little differently. We do so like a… personal touch.” This time, when Santino stroked his palm over John’s thigh, John sucked in a soft breath. 

“What if I do want to be left alone? After this?” 

“John, John. Given what you did so very recently, after five years out of the game… and given that you’re an obvious favourite of the Manager of the New York Continental… I would say that you’re in a particularly privileged position to enforce a state of solitude.” Santino finished his slice and wiped down his fingers. “You should go the whole hog. Take up hiking in the Himalayas. Lose yourself in Alaska. Meditate. Discover inner peace.” 

John thought this over, oblivious or indifferent to sarcasm. “I tried that,” John said, when the pizzas were consumed and they were on their last glasses of wine. “Inner peace. Meditation.” 

“Really? Do tell.” 

“Was a thing that Helen was into. Yoga and stuff.” 

John’s dead wife was sounding more tediously normal by the minute. Maybe that had been the draw. The novelty of living with one of the sheep, when John had grown up among wolves. “Did you enjoy it? ‘Yoga and stuff’?” 

John twisted his fingers together, clenching tightly. “She wanted me to. I wanted to.” 

“But you didn’t,” Santino said. John nodded. Santino chuckled, patting John’s knee. “Do you remember what I told you? Years ago, when you asked me for help?”

“That it was pointless,” John said. He glanced up. “That no one can leave. You were wrong.” 

“Was I?” 

John gestured between them. “This is temporary.” 

“I wasn’t referring to this, though it does prove my point as well. How did it feel, being one of the sheep? Did you feel like you were at peace? Going to the movies, walking on the beach?” Santino asked with a mocking smirk. “Or did it just feel like you were going through the motions? Like none of it was real?” 

John was growing tense. Something had pierced through his indifference, enough to hurt him. Santino sat back and finished his wine, all too aware of Ares growing tense in turn at the table behind them. John stayed silent through the rest of lunch. When it was time to go, he said, “I’ll make my own way.” He did not look directly at Santino. 

Santino checked his watch. “Gianna’s expecting you over for dinner.” 

“I know.”

“Don’t be late.”

In the car, on the way home, Ares signed, -I hope you know what you’re doing.-

Ares almost never questioned Santino’s judgment. When she did, he tried to pay attention. -Why?-

-Be careful.- Ares replied.

-Risk is what makes life exciting.- Santino smirked as Ares inclined her head. She was his consigliere despite her age because she and Santino were very much the same. They were both amused by chaos.

#

Naples was the only major city with a noticeable ratio of wolves to sheep but no Continental. Outside of Rome, there was a Continental in Sicily, and a Continental in Catanzaro, but in Naples, the so-called Civilised Experiment had lapsed after a series of spectacular failures. Between the numerous trigger-happy clans and the carabinieri, there was no real order that could be forged out of the mess. Abram and Viggo had always viewed the situation in Naples with amused contempt. In Russia, things were neater.

“Thought you guys were still at war with the carabinieri,” John said, as they accepted drinks from serving staff and watched the fish. 

“We are,” Santino said. He took a sip of his wine. “It’s an old war, fought on many fronts. It keeps us on our toes.” 

“Why hold the party in the biggest public park in Naples?” John asked. The section they occupied in the Villa Comunale had been spruced up for the evening, thoroughly restored, replanted, manicured, the graffiti erased. The mood was more formal than Rome’s. There was no light show, no stage blaring shrieking music. People mingled among statues and pavilions, eating canapés and drinking wine. Gianna was dressed in an elegant but understated dress, Santino in a tailored black suit. 

Santino looked over at where his sister was holding court by one of the white-arched stone fountains. “No woman has ever held one of the Italian High Table seats. A display of strength had to be made.” 

“Gonna be interesting when the carabinieri roll up to arrest everyone.” 

“They won’t. My sister had a chat with the General. She told him that she intended to hold a very public party. One with a very special guest, a man whose name once served a shield for the bratva in New York.” Santino stroked his fingertips over John’s cheek. 

“That worked?” When John had last visited Italy years ago, he had not been particularly famous. 

“After what you just did? Yes. We managed to acquire some of the security footage.” Santino’s eyes were bright with hunger, his fingers warm over John’s jaw, his thumb pressing over his mouth. “It was very exciting.” 

When John was younger and less tired, he had fucked people who were drawn to him because of what he could do, a string of inconsequential curio-seekers from New York to Moscow. It had taken him years to extricate something remotely person-like from the monster he had become, years to relearn the motions, the language of basic humanity. In so doing, John had lost interest in people who wanted to bed the Baba Yaga. Or so he thought. Under Santino’s touch, his blood quickened. He hauled Santino roughly against him and watched the Devil laugh. John was tempted to shove Santino against the nearest statue, to drag Santino’s long legs around his waist. To bite down on his throat and tear it open, bloody the white line of his collar. 

“I know what you are,” Santino said, his lips brushing John’s with every word. “The man _and_ the legend. You could never be one of the sheep.” 

John choked down a snarl, clenching his hand into a fist over the back of Santino’s jacket. He bit down as he kissed. 

“Are you in a hurry to return to New York?” Santino asked, licking the blood off his lips, his eyes wide and dark. 

“Why?” 

“We have a villa on the Amalfi Coast. Very picturesque.” 

John had once thought himself immune to temptation. He had been wrong about that. In temptation’s name, John had put himself through a task that had nearly broken him afterwards, had tried to remake himself for another’s pleasure. He was not often tempted, but he was defenceless when he was. John kissed Santino again in response, chasing the blood in his mouth.

#

“You let him loose in Positano?” Gianna asked.

“John’s an adult.” Santino balanced the phone between his shoulder and cheek, tugging his laptop over and flicking through his emails. 

“Isn’t it peak tourist season?” 

“So? John has never killed anyone he wasn’t told to kill.” Santino paused. “Other than during that recent business about the dog.”

“Exactly. Who kills seventy people over a dog? He’s clearly suffered from a mental break. I told you he had to be carefully watched _and_ sent home the moment the marker is fulfilled. We already have what we want.” 

“You said he reminded you of a depressed puppy.”

“He did. He’s also still a very successful mass murderer for a depressed puppy. We both saw the footage. You no longer hold his marker.” 

“Relax. I told him to drink some limoncello, eat some olives.” A supplier had encountered some difficulties over setting up a new heroin pipeline. Santino shot back curt instructions. 

“The Baba Yaga, a tourist,” Gianna said, dripping scepticism.

“He’s an American.” Santino paused. “Belarusian. I never could figure that one out. Either way, he’s a foreigner in Positano, so he might as well be a tourist. More importantly, Giovanni’s distribution network has run into a problem.” 

“How hard is it to re-establish a heroin network on the East Coast? We’ve done it before. Giovanni is useless.” 

“I’ll pass on your feedback,” Santino said, “if it was a little more constructive.” He laughed as his sister spat a curse at him over the phone. They were discussing the intricacies of supply-side economics when John reappeared. One minute the sprawling garden with the infinity pool was empty, and in the next John was looming behind a pillar. 

“Call you back,” Santino told Gianna. 

“Pass John my regards,” she retorted, “and fly him out of the fucking country before he burns everything down.” 

“Don’t be so melodramatic.” Santino hung up as his sister growled. He smiled as John prowled over, ominous even in a loose white shirt and grey jeans. 

“Gianna didn’t sound happy,” John said. 

“She thinks that you’ve outstayed your welcome.” Santino pushed back the chair as John closed in, hauling John down for a kiss. 

John was not an easy partner. He liked to bite, liked to bruise. This could not have been the face he lived with when he was married to one of the sheep. John had tried to _be_ one of the sheep, had tried to earn the right to be invisible by performing a task that had ironically made him the most famous man in their world. Santino understood now that John had not killed seventy men over a dog. He had killed them for killing the part of him that had learned how to be human.

“Have I?” John asked. He knelt between Santino’s thighs. Where a more covetous man would have pulled Santino closer, John waited. 

“Not by my measure.” Santino made a show of unbuckling his belt. It had surprised him that John knew what to do with a man, though he was out of practice. Prior to Helen, John was known for having the occasional impersonal affair when he had been much younger, a habit of one night stands that had turned into self-enforced celibacy as he aged. Everyone had been surprised when John had decided to marry. Santino had been bewildered when John had explained why he had needed a favour. 

Now, he understood. John treated love the way he had treated violence—with a consuming focus that shook aside everything that was irrelevant. Santino would have envied Helen if he didn’t have John between his legs. This wasn’t love, not in the way John roughly pulled his trousers and boxers down to free Santino’s cock. Yet the John that Santino had in his grasp was a truer version of John than the one Helen had known, and with that Santino should be content.

He wasn’t. Santino dragged John closer, digging his nails against John’s throat. John glared at him but leant in, licking the swelling tip, grasping the rest in his callused palm and stroking. He would not be rushed, even when Santino cursed him and dug his knees into John’s ribs. John licked his way down the vein, burying his nose in coarse curls and inhaling, fondled the balls in his grip. He licked the moisture from the tip and looked up again, searching for something he wanted in Santino’s face, something that flattened away his irritation and left only that familiar predatory stillness. 

John shifted up to kiss Santino, letting out a low growl when Santino jerked away—he’d never quite enjoyed the taste of cock. John clenched his fist in Santino’s collar and hauled him over anyway, shooting a long warning glance until Santino settled down resentfully. He was rewarded by a few lazy tugs on his thickened erection, a pressure that Santino chased with eager bucks. John bent to kiss him, a hard press of his mouth that gentled when Santino opened his lips. John didn’t bother with a rhythm. He jacked Santino off in hard tugs as he devoured his mouth, demanding Santino’s pleasure. Danger was as much a drug as power. Santino gasped, moaned, raked his fingers down John’s arms. He was pinned to the chair by John’s weight, by the gathering dark in John’s eyes. When John dug his teeth into Santino’s throat, Santino let out a yowl and soiled John’s fingers. 

John let out a slow breath, going still as Santino lay sated. He licked the marks he had left on Santino’s throat, unbuckling his own belt and freeing himself with impatient fingers. John jerked himself off against Santino’s belly, breathing hoarsely with his mouth tucked against Santino’s pulse. Santino made no move to help him, not that John appeared to expect it. When John finally grew quiet, he rubbed wet fingers over his own shirt. 

“I have a proposal,” Santino said, when they cleaned up and sat in the garden by the pool.

John didn’t look away from the graceful coastline beyond. His elbows were pressed over his knees, his hands clasped loosely together. “Figured.” 

“We have the means to enforce the same no-disturb order around you as the Tarasovs, save that our influence is not limited to New York.”

“You guys want someone killed? Forget it.” 

“Gianna has Cassian, I have Ares. They’re not as good as you are, but they _are_ good. We don’t need that part of you, John.” 

John said nothing. His eyes were following a ship traversing the water, a tourist ship with a deck packed full of waving people. The ship cruised slowly out of sight, passing smaller sailboats in its wake. “Then what?” John asked. 

“I can’t promise you the life that you want. But I can promise you _a_ life beyond what you knew.” Santino reached over, stroking John’s arm. “Live that life for a few years until my sister and I consolidate our affairs. Then you can live however you like, wherever you want.” 

John’s jaw worked as he considered this, warring between the weary arsonist he had become and the revenant he once was. Something new won out. John took in a shaky breath, bowing his head. His hands were cold as he prised Santino’s hand from his arm, lifting Santino’s knuckles to his lips to kiss the ring.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Did you guys enjoy the JW3 film? And no, before anyone asks, I'm closed to prompts now, I have 3 more to get through :3 
> 
> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent.tumblr.com
> 
> Notes:
> 
> Yeah, John really does become a bookbinder/restorer in the 5 years with Helen. The scene got cut, but you can see his bookbinder desk in the basement of his house next to his gun cache. https://www.slashfilm.com/john-wick-hobby-books-keanu-reeves/
> 
> Bookbinding for a newbie can be extremely frustrating if you’re a perfectionist—it was the class that caused the most grief when I was in design school.


End file.
